Page 67 of Strangers She Knows

Look at them. How sweet. It looks like a scene from that goddamn BBC historical series set in a castle.

Kellen sat in a brocade easy chair, reading something that looked like a fairy tale.

Max sat nearby, all noble and strong, and watched his wife as if she embodied his every dream.

Rae reclined on the rug, one knee crossed, the other leg resting on it and swinging restlessly. She held a red leather-bound book in one hand and a pen in the other, and she stared at the ceiling.

Poor kid. She was bored, listening to someone read out loud. Listening toKellen Adamsread out loud.

Kellen had changed. Her hair was longer, as if she’d let it grow to cover the brain surgery scars, and white, as if it had been bleached by the island’s sun. That surgery had left its marks in her face, which was more mature, and on her hand. Mara had done her research; she knew Kellen battled atrophy.

Now, as Kellen read, she squeezed a stress ball to build strength. Once she stopped, shook her hand and grimaced, and Mara saw the way the fingers curled toward the palm.

She wanted to tell her not to bother with the stress ball. In another twenty-four hours, that hand wouldn’t be attached to her body.

Then Mara frowned and wondered—was a damaged hand even worth harvesting? What a dreadful thought, that the hand of her dearest enemy was imperfect and trifling.

Kellen looked up from that book and right at the window.

Mara shrank back. Had she seen her? They had been best friends once, like twins who could speak across long distances. Had Kellen heard her thoughts?

But no. Kellen said, “Rae, it’s getting a breezy. Would you shut the window?”

Mara hated that voice, fond, warm, a little raspy, as if she’d been reading too long. She hated the knowledge that Kellen had refused the psychic connection between them. Why would she pretend not to know they had been sisters in a previous life?

Rae hopped up and ran to the window where Mara stood. “Are you going to read more, Mommy? Tonight, will you read more?” Without looking outside, Rae shut that window right in Mara’s face.

Mara hadn’t seen it before, but that kid…looked like Kellen. Her rage swelled. She wanted to break the window, leap in like Dracula, crush them, drink their blood, cut off their hands.

But no! Not now, Mara. Not yet. You couldn’t win against the three of them.

She fingered her pistol.

I could if I shot them.

Too swift. That’s not what you want. You want to take your time, create their fear, enjoy their pain.

Her hand fell away from her sidearm.

You’re so close. Not long now. Go finish your preparations.

Okay. You’re right. I will.

Mara backed away from the window and down the steps.

Kellen had betrayed her. And for that, Max and Rae and most of all, Kellen—they were all going to die.

27

The next morning, Daddy installed lights all over the garage, plugged in the big old kitchen coffee maker, arranged all their new tools, turned to Rae and said, “Isn’t this great? We can see what we’re doing. This will help. We can get the truck running!”

Rae agreed. It was great, and it did help.

But even with the carburetor put together, the F-100 still didn’t start.

After long moments of frustration where Daddy tried not to swear the really bad words, he slid under the truck on his wheeled mechanics’ creeper and Rae leaned into the engine compartment from the top, and they discussed where the holdup could be. Rae was willing to throw in the towel, but when she suggested that, Daddy slid around and glared up at her. So she didn’t suggest they ask Mommy, which would have made all kinds of sense since Mommy was in charge of transportation and stuff in the Army. But Rae already knew sometimes her father was not logical or sensible, and she guessed with what she’d done yesterday—riding off, meeting Miranda, promising not to tell—she was in no position to lecture him.

Mommy came in. That cut and bruise on her jaw looked worse today, and painful, and she was sort of yelling, which was not usual for her, so Rae knew she must be frustrated. “We agreed that between the food in the freezer and the Conkles’ morning basket o’ food, we could survive without Olympia.” She knelt down so she could look under the truck. “Dylan’s done it again. There’s no basket.”

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